Mystery of the Thing Trying to Get in My House Solved

If you recall over the 4th of July there was a mystery thing trying to get in my house. Or so we thought. BFK was sure it was a tumor-laden, rabid raccoon. Sister #2 thought it was an eager mouse. I thought it was a neighborhood cat.

I was right. Well, I was partially right.

Last night I was happily drifting toward slumber, a cool breeze coming in the windows, a sleepy, happy lady boner occupying my last thoughts.

(aside: I love the phrase lady boner, it makes me laugh. Another inappropriate sexist phrase I love? Sweating like a whore in church. I am awful.)

The lady boner was caused by reading Jeremy Messersmith (of It’s Only Dancing fame) tweeting about how great it was to see Jason Isbell (of my favorite record of last year fame) play. Of course that is going to pump me full of happy rock and roll dreaminess, right?

So there I was nearly sleeping when there is a ruckus from downstairs. A loud, hissy, caterwauling ruckus. I jumped from the bed and wrapped the sheet around me.

See, I sleep naked. I have for a million years. This will become more significant in a few paragraphs (the nakedness, not the million years).

I ran to the top of the stairs, clutching the sheet to me, and screeched, “Paco.” There was more hissing and caterwauling. Then a thump. Then silence.

Did you know that without my glasses I’m practically blind? I am. I have the kind of poor eyesight that makes eye doctors who have seen a kabillion eyes say, “yeah, you got some bad eyes.” So I had to run back to my bedroom to find my glasses, and then I crept downstairs unsure of what I’d find in the living room.

By the way this is all happening in the moonlight. I never managed to turn on any of the lights.

What I found when I reached the living room was a gaping hole in the up-to-this-point non-derelict screen and no sign of Paco. I rush over to the couch that sits underneath the windows, sheet billowing behind me, and there is Paco on the other side, puffed up and hissing.

“Paco,” I whisper screech again. I look around the patio where he is to see if whatever has him so riled up is in sight. I see nothing.

I go to the front door, open it, and step gingerly outside. Yeah, I went outside naked except for the sheet. In the back of mind two thoughts fought for dominance:

I really hope there isn’t a tumor-laden, rabid raccoon out here.

I really hope the Hobo neighbors aren’t in their garage smoking as they are wont to do.

As I stepped away from the door a calico cat raced past me, stopped on the driveway, and then turned to look at us. I hissed, because I didn’t know what else to do. The calico darted to the front yard, and then across the street into the neighbor’s yard.

The perpetrator gone, I turned to Paco who was a pissed off, hissing, puff ball of an asshole. I took a step toward him to shoo him into the house and he hissed louder at me.

“Get in the house,” I whisper screeched at him, clutching the sheet to my chest with one hand, and pointing to the door with the other.

He hissed at me again, and then ran into the open door.

“You are such an asshole,” I said, as I closed the door behind me.

I thought bad things about him as I trudged back upstairs filled with adrenaline and dread about the 7:30 a.m. alarm.

“Fucker,” I thought as I lay in bed stewing about my two derelict screens and how I’m going to have to fix them which will involve going to the hardware store which is the next worst thing as a woman after the automotive store/car shop.

So now I guess I have to shut my windows before bed lest my sixteen-year-old asshole cat get all territorial again. Fucker.